


Pitt Stop

by SouthernBuck



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Actual trash fic, Desperation, John has a piss kink, M/M, Morston but lowkey, Omorashi, Piss, Urination, Watersports, complete kink nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBuck/pseuds/SouthernBuck
Summary: An all night ride after a shootout and they're all exhausted, but John ain't sure he can make it back to camp without a stop, and Dutch won't let them rest up until they're outta the woods.(Every time I post a fic with piss in it, it gets way more notes than my other fics. So here, you thirsty whores, have a while damn piss fic.)
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	Pitt Stop

**Author's Note:**

> As I said above. My fics get like 2-3 comments, but the ones where the word piss is used seem to get like 8. So as an experiment, here's an entire 100% trash piss fic, no holds barred, full cringe level kink shit. No regrets. Don't like don't read. Comment if you want more.  
> No Beta, we die like kings.

All damn night they’d been riding, and all morning too. John didn’t know exactly what time they’d bailed from the robbery with Pinkerton's close in tow, but it must have been at least twelve hours of solid riding now. His lower back ached something terrible from stiffness, head felt like it was full of bricks too. What he wouldn’t do for a few hours sleep right now, christ or even a bite to eat. The horses were flagging obviously, even the count had his head dipped as he ran, and John could feel Old Boy wheezing slightly beneath his thighs, sympathy for the poor beast plagued him, but they spurred on.

He’d ridden for longer, through worse, being shot at, not getting sleep for days, riding through storms and heatwaves and injury. It honestly wouldn’t feel like as big an issue as it was if he didn’t need to piss like a goddamn race horse. He’d thought he needed to go badly hours ago, now it was almost unbearable. Every jolt in the rode felt like his abused bladder was being hit with a bat and he found himself riding half standing in the stirrups as much as his legs would allow him to, to take the pressure off. 

The other’s must be feeling it too, right? Twelve damn hours, no man could go twelve hours without taking a leak and not feel rightfully uncomfortable. He finds his eyes scanning the group around him; Dutch up front leading, Arthur and Bill covering his sides, guns drawn and an edginess to them that suggested they didn’t think they were out of the woods with this chase yet, Javier and Charles flanking with him at the back. Javier looked exhausted at least, Charles, as always, seemed to betray no particular emotions either way, it was one of the rather frightening things about the man. If any of them were on the verge of pissing themselves they sure as hell were doing a good job hiding it and it frustrated the hell out of John.

He had to say something. They’d been riding at speed and hadn’t seen or heard their chasers for at least a good half hour. A couple uniformed bastards had shot at them back up near Tall Trees, Arthur had shot one of them through the shoulder and the other had fallen back. They had been the last two spotted following, since then it had been quiet.

It would be the safest plan to keep riding as far as they damn could, get to a town or a landmark, split off from there. That would be the most sensible thing to do.

But Jesus, he needed to stop. His bladder was screaming. He could hardly stay still in his own damn saddle. Doubted he’d be much use in a gunfight right now, it was taking all his focus to just stay on the road and not piss all over his saddle, if they ran into trouble he sure as shit wasn't prepared.

“I think we’re clear,” He calls out to Dutch, voice level but brows furrowed, “We should- It’s been a while, we should let the horses rest.”

“You crazy?” Dutch almost immediately calls back, risking only a brief exhausted look over his shoulder at John before facing out to the road ahead once again. “We need to get the hell off this trail, they know exactly which way we’re heading. We’re gonna get outta this forest then split off, lose them by spreading out. No one stops until then, for all we know they could only be a damn half mile behind still. Horses can last it out another few hours at least, suck it up.”

John grimaces at the snappish tone. Dutch is always irritable when he don’t get enough sleep, but it still prodded a nerve for the man to react like he was some kid whining about how long dinner was taking rather than the grown ass man he was offering a pretty sensible request. Weren’t ever much point in arguing with Dutch when he was like this,John knew that, him and Arthur both did more than anyone. Didn’t stop him glaring holes in the back of the man’s head though.

It’s another several minutes of silent riding that feels like it stretches on for hours, John trying his damn hardest not to focus on the nauseating feeling of liquid sloshing around in his abdomen, when Arthur seems to lower his rifle, just a little at least.

“There’s a lake not far, quiet place, we could probably stop for a minute, let the horses drink somethin’. I could keep watch, let everyone eat somethin’ and stretch their legs,” Arthur grunts out, only barely loud enough for John to hear.

The relief of the man’s words almost makes him lose it on the spot and he sits up sharply in his saddle to steal his bladder, thankfully no-one taking notice.

“We ain’t stoppin’,” Dutch snaps, throwing a hand up in gesture at the man as if to swat away the idea like nothing more than a fly, and John almost feels like crying out in despair. “Thought I had a gang of outlaws, not a gaggle of damn kids that need to ‘stretch their legs’ and have a snack break every hour. Christ, the horses will be fine another hour until we’re outta’ the woods.”

Raising his gun again with a dismissive eye roll that Dutch thankfully didn’t seem to catch, Arthur silently goes back to riding on, sharp eyes watching the surroundings for movement. If John wasn’t feeling like a dam about to break he might find it funny. As it stands he just feels a cold dread rushing through him.

Another hour weren’t nothin’. He should be able to hold his waters like a man, as long as any of the rest of ‘em if not longer. He weren’t weaker than any of them, so why the hell was he barely hanging on by a thread while they all seemed so calm?

Another slight dip in the road makes him bounce in the saddle and he can’t help folding over forwards, squeezing his thighs against Old Boy as hard as he can without hurting the horse to try and keep himself in control. Shit, he hoped the dampness sticking his jeans to his thighs was just sweat. 

Tapping his thumb against the reins impatiently he glances around. He needed distraction. Anything to take his mind off the assaulting thoughts of running water, bubbling brooks, tinkling streams, sloshing lakes…..shit, shit, shit. 

“You doin’ alright, Javier?” He asks without much thought, hoping the beading sweat on his brow wasn’t as obvious as it felt as he turned his head to glance at the other man, who looked nearly asleep sitting up, and jolted when he was spoken to.

“Sure,” He answered quickly, clearing his throat and rubbing a hand over one eye as if to brush away the weariness. “Never been great with all nighters, that’s all. Could use a stiff drink and a few hours.”

John even found himself flinching at the mention of a drink. Javier must have noticed because through the tiredness the man tilts his chin at him with a sympathetic hum. 

“You?”

Gritting his teeth he blows out a breath and tries to sound as casual as possible, even as he hunches forward a little further and presses himself as heavily into the saddle as he can to reap the little friction it provided. “Fine, I’m fine. Tired too, I guess. We’ll be outta here soon.”

It seemed enough of an answer for Javier, who turned his focus back to the road, and the conversation ended there. So much for distraction.

It really was just an hour. Soon as they split off he could stop and take a leak. Maybe if he just...let a little out, to take the pressure off. Not enough for anyone to notice. He could just let go for a second, enough to damp the saddle but not to cause any suspicion. Maybe he’d be able to hold out the rest of the way then? 

Still, a strange unease sat in his lower belly at the thought. What if someone noticed? Charles was barely a few feet away and the man had the nose of a wolf, could tell if there was deer droppings half a mile away and lord knows how. What if he noticed? John didn’t think the stoically quiet man would say anything if he did, but the idea that someone, that anyone, would know he was actively pissing himself was enough to make his stomach squirm in a strange way. 

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what the discomfort was, it just felt so….wrong. Embarrassing but also…..maybe thrilling? To be caught, doing something so…

Another dip in the road, John has to bite his tongue to stop him from swearing. To hell with it, if Charles noticed he didn’t care anymore, it was this or the whole dam was going to burst.

He finds himself sparing a quick glance at Charles, the man had his eyes fixed on the road, didn’t even seem to notice him. He shifts in the saddle, biting the inside of his lip quietly as he focuses.

He lets go, just for a moment. Urine gushes out of him and warms the seat of his pants in a damp spot the size of his hand and it takes all his effort not to groan in relief. Heat floods his face, and for a moment he feels strangely turned on by the sheer terror of possibly being seen.

Stopping the flow feels like a punch to the gut and he shifts back and forth on the damp leather to steady his control. The relief is gone, it hurts, oh god it hurts. This is so much worse. The dam is broken and shit if it isn’t only the pressure of the saddle pressing into his crotch holding it all back now. Panic shivers through him like a wave.

Another dip in the road jogs him and a stream hisses out and re-warms the wet patch, he stifles a yelp, but whatever pathetic sound he makes instead seems to attract attention, which is the last damn thing he wants right now.

Bill glances around at him with an irritated look. “You alright?”

No. No. He wasn’t alright. Every time his rear left the saddle even for a fraction of a second he could feel liquid dribbling out of him, trying to stop it was like trying to plug a fire hydrant with tissue. Sweat trickles down his temples as he desperately clenches his bladder to try and regain some control. 

“I’m fine!” He snaps, all too quickly, breath catching in his throat. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. That was a stupid thing to say. Any second he was going to burst and they were all going to see him piss his pants like a damn child. He had to do something, anything. ANYTHING. “...I-I have to stop I’m- I’m gonna puke!”

That was near damn as embarrassing as what was actually happening, and now everyone’s damn attention was on him. Shit, shit! Charles and Javier were giving him the side eye warily, christ he hopes the wetness of his saddle isn’t visible yet. At least his bladder clenches to a stop with all the eyes on him, though it nearly doubles him over in pain.

“You sick? How long you been sick?!” Dutch calls back as they ride, to his credit, he slows the pace a little and the others follow. Not that it does him a damn lick of help now.

“You probably just hungry, Marston. Calm down n’ eat somethin’. I got some crackers you can-” Arthur starts too damn calmly. Cut off when John rears Old Boy to a stop suddenly, gripping the reins like a lifeline.

“John, we’re nearly there. If you’re too sick to ride, climb on the back of Boaz,” Javier offers, almost irritably as he stops alongside him, the others following suit just ahead, and christ if the horses don’t look thankful for the brief pause, even if it’s the last damn thing on John’s mind right now.

“No I- Go on ahead I- I just need a second- I’m gonna puke everywhere if I don’t stop right now. Just go!” John snips in a panic. It’s over, he damn well knows it is. It’s like a wall has crumbled and suddenly he’s got no control. Warmth is running down the inside of his thighs, he can’t stop it. It can't stop it! “GO! IT’S-I’M FINE JUST GO DAMMIT-” 

They don’t move, all eyes are on him as it happens and lord has John never wanted for the ground to swallow him up as much as he does at this moment. All he can do it tug his hat down over his eyes and stifle a pained groan as his body gives up, wracked with shivers, and lets it all go.

Old Boy nickers and tosses his head defiantly, clearly not too pleased as piss streams down the poor animals back and legs. It gathers in his boots and splatters in little puddles in the dirt either side of the horse, and John thinks for a moment he might actually vomit in humiliation. 

It’s uncomfortably silent other than the horses quiet panting and the last of the liquid splattering. John wishes someone would say something, anything, be it teasing or shaming or scolding or disgust, anything was better than the suffocating silence. Even with his eyes fixed, horrified, on his saddle, he can feel their eyes burning into him and he can’t bring himself to look up and see what their expressions held.

The relief of finally being empty is violently overshadowed by shame and humiliation. He shivers, near feeling light enough to just collapse. He opens his mouth to say something, unsure even what words he wants to come out? An apology? An excuse? What damn excuse did he have? 

He doesn’t get the chance when he’s cut off by a sudden string of sharp swearing, the unexpectedness of it tugging his head up to glance over to watch as Arthur scrambles down from his horse pale as a sheet with a hand shoved between his thighs, swearing like a sailor as he barely makes it to the nearest tree before frantically working at his trouser buttons. He gets free of his pants by the skin of his teeth and pisses all over his boots before he can get enough control to aim.

John quickly notices, none of the stares he’s getting are quite what he expected. It’s not disgust or amusement, they all look...strained, panicked.

Javier is the next to follow suit, almost damn leaping from Boaz, then Bill who doesn’t even make it to a tree and just yanks it out to piss forcefully at the side of the road. Even Charles, who remains silent and calm, nearly doubles over when he steps down from Taima and only shuffles to the closest tree to let go. The only one who stays on his horse is Dutch, who glances between the lot of them with a look that is almost disbelief and anger rolled into one.

“Pathetic! The lot of you-” He snaps, though John notices the older man immediately climbs down from the Count too and shuffles up against a tree like the rest. 

“The hell did you want us to do?! End up like Marston?! Christ Dutch, we been ridin’ all damn night, a man can only go so long,” Arthur snaps almost viciously, though John can’t help but notice the man’s head lowering like a sheepish dog and the heat creeping up the back of his neck behind his hat.

Dutch to his credit, didn’t retort the argument and instead just grunted, shooting a sharp look at John, who flinches in his saddle. “Get your gun out and keep watch a damn second, would you? Jesus-”

He fumbles over the words only for a moment, half expecting some kind of patronising scolding, but quickly grabs his sidearm and glances behind them to keep an eye out for movement. 

Uncomfortable cold was starting to settle into the dampness between his legs and the unpleasant stench of urine made him screw up his nose slightly, but the lack of chiding and comments on his accident gave him a strange moment of clarity to let it sink in. Christ, he’s really just pissed himself, completely sober, in front of his damn gang. In front of damn Arthur. If he’d held out maybe a couple more minutes, someone would have cracked first, or they’d have stopped, or SOMETHING. It was probably the damn most humiliating thing to ever happen to him….and yet for some reason he was feeling that odd warmth in his lower belly starting to stir. Even more so when Arthur finished up, giving himself a shake and a weary sigh before tucking it away and turning to glance at John, eyes giving him a once over with an expression John can't place.

He felt like he was on a damn stage being ogled at by the man, staring at him like some exotic attraction. Shame burned through him, but almost more humiliatingly, his cock twitches a little in his pants at the attention and he grunts and leans forward in his own mess to make it less obvious. The man he respects so damn much is staring at him, staring at his disgrace, he feels like he should want to be shot right there, but the odd tingle of arousal assaults him instead, fidgeting uncomfortably under the older man’s gaze. 

They all finish up, one by one, slinking back to their horses and mounting once again, somehow all suddenly looking so drained as if the night had finally set in, even Dutch rubbed his hand over his drooping eyes and scratched at the Counts neck for a moment.

Arthur clears his throat, seeming to suddenly become aware that he was staring, and tilts his chin at John in a sort of awkward gesture before climbing back onto his horse. “You’ll uh- It happens. You’ll dry off, we won’t say nothin’, “he grunts.

It’s almost laughable to hear something so sheepishly supportive from Arthur of all people. He’d fully expected the man to never let him live this down another day in his life, though the contrasting gesture was oddly reassuring, it made him feel a little warm as he spurred Old Boy on to follow once again, cold shame in his stomach replaced with hesitant relief. 

He weren’t sure he trusted any of them not to tell the whole damn camp about the incident the second they had a little alcohol in their systems. Oddly, he wasn’t sure it bothered him as much as it should. The thought that Arthur Morgan had watched him in his humiliating display of losing control, strangely turned him on more than he was willing to admit, and maybe that was worth all the teasing the camp could offer.


End file.
